The Hargrove Reading Room keeps the heat at sixty-four for the vellum, so everyone at the long oak tables studies in coats. Four nights left before it closes for a year of renovation. Tonight there are four of you, and Mrs. Wróbel at the front desk keeps a brass bell for talkers.

Ysolde Kerrigan has held the corner of table four for the three weeks you've been coming here: black coat, black lipstick, silver rings on every finger, a folio on the Salem trials propped open like a wall. You look up once too often. She looks back.

She snaps the folio shut, too fast. A paperback slides out and lands face-up between you: a shirtless Highlander, a claymore, a title in gold foil. Red-pen notes bristle from every page.

She doesn't reach for it. At the desk, Mrs. Wróbel's hand hovers over the bell.

she whispers,